A feeling of relief came over Wang Qiyao when she was selected for the preliminary pageant; she could finally face all those people who had been supporting her, and, most of all, she could face herself. But she was a little surprised when she made it into the second round of competition. Only then did she begin to take the pageant seriously; up until that point she had simply been trying to make Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng happy. Taking the pageant lightly was her way of building a protective shell around herself — behind that shell reposed her dignity. Wang Qiyao’s self-esteem had been injured by Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng’s diligence; the sole course of action she took to protect herself was to assume a thoroughly ambivalent attitude about the whole affair. Thinking back, Wang Qiyao realized that those had indeed been difficult days to get through. When all was said and done, the hope and hard work of Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng rested entirely on Wang Qiyao’s shoulders. Success or failure depended not on them but on her. In a way, they were making Wang Qiyao’s decision for her; forcing their own dreams and desires onto her. Had Wang Qiyao taken things seriously, she surely would have ended up angry and perhaps even terminated her friendship with them. It was her ambivalence that saved their relationship. But everything turned out all right once Wang Qiyao made it into the second round. Everyone was happy — including Jiang Lili and Mr. Cheng.
Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili began to reappear at a new series of parties, each of which one seemed to resemble a press conference where the questions never ceased. Wang Qiyao never failed to answer the questions put to her. Jiang Lili, on the other hand, was extremely reserved and refused to answer certain questions. About this time Mr. Cheng did another photo shoot for Wang Qiyao. He borrowed a friend’s photo studio and shot a series of close-ups and headshots. He wanted people to remember her face. Afterward he got a buddy of his who was with the press to pull some strings and the photo was printed in a corner of the page of one of the Shanghai newspapers. It wasn’t a big newspaper, but the photo ran alongside an article about the Miss Shanghai pageant — so it was basically free publicity for Wang Qiyao.
Events were now unfolding so quickly that Wang Qiyao began to get scared. Her progress was too smooth — there must be some booby traps lying ahead. She had always believed that fortune comes and goes in cycles — nothing good lasts forever. But about this time Wang Qiyao first started entertaining some rather extravagant hopes. She had naturally high aspirations, but having come to terms with the limitations imposed by her environment, she developed a habit of splashing cold water on her hopes. The world is full of opportunities, she knew, but often the harder you try the less you end up with. So she decided instead simply to hold on tight to the little bit she already had. At least it was something and, who knew, perhaps if she didn’t think about it things would start going her way. Sometimes the less you try the more you end up with. As it was, things really were going her way, and even if she didn’t want to think about it, she really had no other choice. The days became even more difficult to get through. Her earlier difficulties sprang from trying to protect herself and keep people at bay, but now she wanted in. As the semifinals approached, Wang Qiyao started to look thin and fatigued.
Her bedroom, adjacent to the downstairs parlor, had been converted from a study expressly for her. It had a window overlooking the garden, where the moonlight flickered under the night sky. Sometimes she thought to herself, even the moon here is different. The moon back home was a small courtyard moon, stained by the smell of kitchen smoke and lampblack; the moon here might as well have come from a scene in a novel, its light shining on flowers and rambling plants. When she couldn’t sleep at night Wang Qiyao would get up and gaze through the sheer drapes out her window. She listened to the nameless sounds of the still night, so unlike the night sounds back home, which all had a name. Back home she could always tell whose baby was crying or which mother was berating her child; she could identify the sounds of rats racing beneath the floor, or the sound of a toilet flushing. Here only one sound had an identity. The lord of all sounds — and that was the sound of the bell tower ringing. It overrides all other sounds and voices, which form a bed of echoes reverberating through the night. The echoes are the finest strokes of a huge painting that constitutes the deep thought of the night. This sound has a buoyancy that lifts you up and knocks you around as if you were riding on a bed of waves. When people have floated on the waves long enough, they feel hollow inside and out, thoroughly saturated by the night.
The nights here have a corrosive power; they eat away at people’s true feelings, replacing them with illusions. The nights here are clear and limpid. And unlike the nights outside her window back home, filled with muck and impurities, the nights here shine on people, making each and every strand of their hair distinct. If you reach out your hand, the color of the night slips between your fingers, and not even a sieve can sift out a single particle. The night fills the sky, pressing down on the rooftops, but the buildings never feel its weight, because actually it is as light as the wings of a cicada. There is only one thing in the night that has form, and that is shadows cast by moonlight. They stand out in delicate strokes against the invisible color of the night; they are the flesh and skin of the night. The night penetrates through ten thousand things; there is no crevice it does not creep into, and in then end the ten thousand things turn shapeless and colorless. The night is a solvent; it breaks down the structure of objects and replaces them with empty form. The nights here are magical; they confuse the senses, turning everything upside down.
The list of contenders who made it into the semifinals was printed in all the newspapers. Although the final victor had yet to be chosen, Wang Qiyao was already basking in the attention. Everyone knew that she was staying with Jiang Lili, and their house was a revolving door for visitors. Even their most distant acquaintances suddenly felt compelled to stop by and ask endless questions. Wang Qiyao became a source of glory for the Jiang family. Jiang Lili and her mother spent all their time greeting the never-ending stream of visitors and serving them tea and snacks. Busy as they were, they couldn’t have been happier — except for Jiang Lili’s little brother, who locked himself in his room, listening to whatever ramblings or songs came in over the radio. Every day the three women would get up, first thing in the morning, dress, make themselves up, and sit in the parlor, waiting for the doorbell to ring. Sitting there, waiting to welcome their guests, they were like soldiers ready for battle. Things were coming to a head, they realized, and there was no room to overlook even the minutest detail. On one occasion Wang Qiyao was interviewed by a reporter for the evening edition of a local newspaper. His article described Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili as being as close as sisters, and thanks to the Jiang family’s notoriety in the business world this helped to inflate Wang Qiyao’s reputation.
Jiang Lili’s mother had long since come to think of Wang Qiyao as dearer than her own daughter. Her daughter was always rebelling against her, whereas Wang Qiyao was the complete opposite and heeded her every whim. She even went so far as to write to her husband in Chongqing to pressure him to donate money to the Disaster Relief Committee so as to throw some additional support in Wang Qiyao’s corner. Normally, Jiang Lili and her mother had nothing to occupy them; now they were not only busy but had a common objective. United by this common goal, they suddenly found themselves getting along quite well.